


What Do I Know?

by abbichicken



Category: The Prisoner (1967)
Genre: Captivity, Confinement, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-13
Updated: 2016-12-13
Packaged: 2018-09-08 08:30:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8837629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abbichicken/pseuds/abbichicken
Summary: Morning, in The Village.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LemuelCork](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LemuelCork/gifts).



Six takes a few moments on waking, before he opens his eyes, to adjust, orient and be himself. They are a small defiance, where he comes from the London of Before, to the Village. It's a tested tactic, one perfected to aid him in the event of capture or commitment, whichever, he had thought, might come first. The Village is something of both.

He has tried thinking of it as asylum, as a construct of the mind. Perhaps, beneath its show, there really is no more to The Village than a series of cells, atop a high cliff. It would make as much sense as the Rover. Perhaps the kosho sessions are simply the bouncing of his own protesting body against the padded walls of his confinement. Perhaps the Number Two, in its infinite guise, is the echo of his own rationale, lost in some daring assignment, some hopeless torment, some last vestiges of defiance from the consequences of that act of resignation. The Rover, the silliest of all guardians until it is pressing against your face, clouding mind as much as vision and sound, all-encompassing and insistent, the sensation may be analogous to that of many tortures, or to the relentless pressure of total mental shutdown.

It has been a long year - a long succession of long years - in heavy service. The resignation was inevitable. Whether it itself was real or not is something that Six tries not to question, not even in these most vague of times, though the temptation is strong.

Such thoughts do not help, for, if this is a construct, it is done to protect, and rejecting protection is one of Six's most regrettable traits. It is another reason for taking a moment, before the cameras and recorders that line this room can whirr into action.

_Where am I?_

In the Village.

The bed is just so. This bed is comfortable. The Village is comfortable. Unless it is aligned to interrogate and to push, it will always be comfortable. Sleep is possible, feels real and deep, and is good. The air is always just right - not damp, as in his old London bedroom, nor dry, as on many of his travels, nor dusty, as in his childhood country home, where he has retreated, from time to time. But not in a very long time. The Village air facilitates good, healthy breathing. It is by the sea, and the taste of the sea is perpetually present. 

_What do I know?_

I have ten toes. All ten. One has been broken by a steel toecap. It still hurts to move, but move it still does.

Six breathes deeply.

_Who am I?_

I am Number Six.

There is no point in being anything else. There is no need to relive the details of his old name and number. No need to recall the variety of clothes he owns, the stiff feel of new shoes, nor the weekend comfort of the wax jacket. The past cannot help him here.

I am not a number. 

It is vital to hold onto those details from before, the feel of the steering wheel beneath his hand, the clink and drag of the wrench on the nuts and bolts that hold this lightest of cars together. The squeak of the leather seat and vibration of the engine that travels up the spine as you start to drive. 

_What am I?_

I am a resident of The Village.

I am a free man. 

It must increasingly be the case that these two facts can co-exist. The Village is as much a game for him to play as it is a prison to hold him, squeeze him, manipulate him. 

Six flexes his feet and clenches his fists. Good working order. There seems to be a bruise at his side. A soreness in his left knee. An escapade of sorts, but the details may stay at the back of the mind for now. 

_Who is Number One?_

~~You are...Number Six.~~

Six inhales, contracts his body, swings his legs around and stands up, stretching high enough to almost touch the ceiling of his quaint little quarters. 

The Village alarm clock sounds, such as it is, and Six smiles. 

"Good morning!" he intones, and, to all intents and purposes, it appears that he means it.

**Author's Note:**

> Hi hi! Every year I hope there'll be original Prisoner requests, and I only saw yours right at the last minute! Truly, it's the story of my heart, and I had just the same experience with bootlegged tapes and mind-opening wonder at the tales in my teenage years. I've spent many a time in Portmeirion since then, and it never fails to capture my heart and imagination. I hope this snippet is, indeed, the smallest of treats!


End file.
